


Cor Ad Cor Loquitur

by Devilc



Series: Ad Altiora Tendo -- I strive towards higher things [13]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Historical, Ireland, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24748342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: And yet … it does not matter what the days might bring, because this is their place, the place they both fit, and so long as he has Diarmuid and Diarmuid has him …  that is every precious thing worth having.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Series: Ad Altiora Tendo -- I strive towards higher things [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/881538
Comments: 14
Kudos: 47





	Cor Ad Cor Loquitur

**Author's Note:**

> Pilgrimage is copyright its respective owners. This is a labor of love, not lucre.

Cor ad cor loquitur -- heart speaks to heart

* * *

Though the island is remote and has but one good anchor point, he knows from experience that these alone will not stop raiders determined to take cattle, nor assassins come for them. In between all the other chores of daily life on this scrap of stone and turf, he teaches Diarmuid how to fight. Not that there's much time left after tending to a small vegetable patch (and making sure the cows can't get into it); milking the cows and making butter (which they make into cakes wrapped with dulse), clabbering the rest of the milk and having both ready when the boat comes from Deenish; tending to the cows and nursing those that take sick or injure themselves; scrabbling over the rocks for dulse and shellfish; and chinking the gaps in the walls and roof of their house against the ever present breeze from the ocean.

He starts Diarmuid with the sling, a non-knightly weapon whose use he learned in the Holy Land, and over the course of a season, Diarmuid becomes adept enough to occasionally hit what he aims at. By the half year, Diarmuid becomes good enough to clip a bird in flight, and their oily, fishy flesh joins their diet of oats, clabbered milk, neeps, kale, dulse, and whatever shellfish they can reach on the low tide.

After Diarmuid masters the sling, he asks the men in the boat from Deenish if they can bring a good stout stave and blade -- ostensibly for scything down the ferns and gorse that grow in a hollow on the northeast side of the island. Which they do -- in between lessons on how to use it as a pole arm.

The added meat in their diet plus the training means that Diarmuid puts on a little more in height, but noticeably adds in muscle, though his build will never be massive or stocky.

~oo(0)oo~

The long days of Summer bless the island with an abundance of thick grass and comparatively warm days, and one afternoon after seeing Diarmuid finally master a sweeping move with the bill hook that their patron sent over a few weeks ago without any further explanation, he presses an exuberant Diarmuid down into the fragrant green blades.

Of his fantasy, he gets out, "For a long time I've thought about --" before Diarmuid kisses him to silence. 

When they break to catch a breath, Diarmuid says, "I've thought about this, too," before he hastily rucks his jerkin and tunic off. He can't contain his smile at the sight of that lean, muscled chest, and upon seeing his delight, Diarmuid responds with a saucy laugh. "Like what you see, old man?"

"Weanling" he growls back.

~oo(0)oo~

He's as naked as Diarmuid, both sets of their clothes beneath him (for though the grass of the island is lush and rich, its stones are many) when Diarmuid reaches for his belt pouch and pulls out a scrap of hide, bound with a twist of twine. Inside is a nugget of butter.

He feels his eyes go wide. "Are you _sure_?" he asks. Their first attempt at this did not end so well, but not for Diarmuid's lack of trying.

Diarmuid nods. Though his cheeks are pink with bashfulness, those sloe eyes burn with hot determination, and he feels himself surge to full hardness in response.

~oo(0)oo~

The nugget of butter makes all the difference. Diarmuid eases slowly down his length, his face tense at first, but gradually relaxing as the sting of it eases. He pauses once fully seated, drawing in a few jittery breaths before he moves.

He can't stop his eyes rolling back up in his head at the feeling, and he feels himself give bone deep groans in response as Diarmuid inches back down.

"I take it you like it then?" Diarmuid's voice starts superior, but ends in a sudden squeak when he bucks his hips.

He wants to take it slow. He wants to rush to the glorious conclusion.

In the end, it's all of that and none of it. He dare not watch Diarmuid writing atop him -- the few glimpses he allows himself of that are so searingly hot that he would spend if he looks for more than the blink of an eye. He lets Diarmuid set the pace and his body instinctively responds, in tune to his beloved's needs. When the rocking atop him and the rasping breaths take a slightly frantic edge, he reaches up to catch Diarmuid's cock in his hand. Two strokes, maybe three is all it takes, and the sight of Diarmuid seizing and shuddering, sends him crashing over the edge. He spends long, hot, and deep, drawing a breathy moan from Diarmuid as his hands clench those narrow hips and he thrusts up, hard.

Diarmuid all but crashes down on him, and they lie there for several moments, breathing hard, shivering with the aftershocks, before he feels himself start to soften and gently he eases them apart.

"I wish I had the words for this," Diarmuid says softly, tucked in at his side, voice barely audible over the sound of breeze and the lapping sea. "It's --"

He stays Diarmuid's lips with his finger. "There are no words. Every word ever would not be enough."

After a moment, Diarmuid says, "Cor ad cor loquitur."

He chortles at the Latin, surprised to hear it at all, surprised Diarmuid remembers (or even knew) such a phrase. "Yes," he replies, before kissing him tenderly. "That is the right of it."

~oo(0)oo~

That night as he banks the ashes of their fire and tucks into bed next to an already soundly sleeping Diarmuid, he listens to the breeze blowing 'round their snug little room, and thinks about the past, present, and future.

He is a lettered man, trained in the arts of war and the courtly graces, too. He has supped with the high and mighty. He has been to the Holy Land and back and seen a thousand wonders in between. He could claim a title and lands -- nothing truly grand, but more than enough -- over there, should he turn his back on the pale and return to civilization.

But there is no place for Diarmuid in that world, much less the ways in which their hearts speak, one to the other.

They could return to the Church, take their places in that world, but again, there is no place in that realm for their two hearts to beat as one, not like this.

Here, they are subject to raids by marauding sea peoples, or an assassination by a vengeful lord, or losing the grace and favor of The MacCarthy. Howling storms batter this rough island, and for all of summer's sun and rich greens, winter brings short, bleak, grey days filled with rain and wind-driven sleet.

And yet …. He sucks in a deep, ragged yawn, and Diarmuid shifts closer to him beneath the blanket, settling in with a soft, contented sigh.

And yet … it does not matter what the days might bring, because this is their place, the place they both fit, and so long as he has Diarmuid and Diarmuid has him … that is every precious thing worth having.

**Author's Note:**

> And here we are at the end of this series. It's been quite a journey.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me this long!


End file.
